


Hamish (just a magic trick)

by Aeeet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Fake Character Death, Fix-It, John believes in Sherlock Holmes, Just a Magic Trick, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:35:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6173008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeeet/pseuds/Aeeet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It could be said that after Sherlock Holmes suicide, John Watson’s life became the same meaningless nothing that has been before meeting the detective.”</p><p>Fortunately for him, his middle name is going to bring him the greatest joy of his life, because as Sherlock once said “It was just a magic trick”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hamish (just a magic trick)

**Author's Note:**

> AN: It must be one of the most recurrent stories in the fandom, but I just had to write it. What if John Watson discovers the fake suicide only months after the Fall?
> 
> First fic written in English in a long time, I really hope it is understable and enjoyable.

It could be said that after Sherlock Holmes suicide, John Watson’s life became the same meaningless routines that has been before meeting the detective. 

_“Boring.”_

For the last 7 months a voice very similar to that of Sherlock can be heard frequently in John’s head, especially when he is trying to work at the clinic or doing the shopping. 

_“Boring. Boring.”_

Apparently the voice in his head isn’t giving him any break tonight.

_“You see, but you don’t observe John.”_

-That was new-John thinks-My therapist is going to love it. 

He almost laughs but then he looks up and he sees it. St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Barts. The place where it all began, but also where it ended. How appropriate. St. Bartholomew was brutally skinned and it´s almost how John feels since that day, raw and broken.

_“Sentimental.”_

But the sad true is that John feels more alive than ever when he can hear him like that, he can pretend at least for a second that Sherlock is still on this world. And that makes John immensely happy… at least for that sole second. 

Holding his breath, John allows himself to watch the roof of the hospital for the first time. He tries to hold back the tears when he can almost see a tall shadow at the rooftop. Black coat making him look like a fucking superhero. Sherlock Holmes. John only wants to remember him like that, with his collar coat turned up and those damn cheekbones, with the 5-colours-in-1 eyes and the unkempt curls. The man John Watson fell in love with. 

_“Nobody could be that clever.”_

John almost wants to shut up the voice, but then he remembers that sound, that choked laugh Sherlock did when John answered his “You could”. He made his detective laugh for the last time that day and it’s a very small comfort. 

It’s been a very long road but John can admit now that he fell in love with Sherlock like a fool. And yes, Sherlock wasn’t perfect… for God’s sake, he was the biggest jerk to ever walk on the face of the Earth, but John would have given his life for that same jerk a thousand times.

Sherlock never bought milk and he always filled the fridge with body parts… but at the same time he was the same genius madman who could discover a killer for the hem of their pants or something as amazing as it. The same Sherlock that played his violin to make Mycroft leave the flat was the same man that played the most amazing melodies to drive John’s nightmares away. Sherlock Holmes was a dichotomy and it kills John to think of all the things he never got to discover about him. 

But London doesn’t forgive even the broken hearts and soon it begins to rain again. John sighs and walks to his Sherlock-less flat, a flat that will never be a home like 221B used to be. While he notices the vibration of an incoming message in his pocket John thinks that maybe it’s time to give an opportunity to that blond nurse that is trying to get in his pants all the time. 

But the message is not from Mary. In fact, it does not have a remittent.

How can a single word mean so much? John doesn’t know but his heart is pounding on his chest so fast it hurts.

**Hamish.**

His middle name. Nobody cares nowadays about middle names, he didn’t even learn about Sherlock’s, although it was probably some posh and pompous one. 

The main fact is that he hates his middle name, he’s always hated it. Hamish. He never uses it, he hides as much as he can. Not even his detective was able to deduce it but he had to steal his Birth Certificate.

The message cannot be a mistake, it has to be directed to him, to John **H.** Watson. He tries to think that it’s just a coincidence and… 

_“The Universe is rarely so lazy, John.”_

If it’s not a mistake then… 

_“It’s a trick. It’s just a magic trick.”_

John starts to run. He runs as if Sherlock was still by his side chasing criminals along London alleyways. He forgets about his limp, he loses his cane… nothing matters because if Sherlock Holmes is still alive, John will never need that damn thing anymore, nor that whiskey bottle he has to replenish every three days. And Lestrade will return John’s gun to his owner, because John will have his life back and will use the gun to protect the most amazing man he’s ever known, without funny thoughts. 

* * *

At the flat he doesn’t even bother to close the door, he just opens the laptop and searches for his blog with shaking hands. He finds the unpublished posts and re-reads those of the week before Sherlock’s suicide. For once he listens to his friend and instead of seeing, he observes. 

And Johns wants to cry because he can observe everything now: Sherlock playing with a squash ball all the week, Sherlock talking about gravity and impact of objects that fall, Sherlock laughing about how unrealistic blood is portrayed in John’s favorite TV series.

But John is a man of Science, even when the papers have turned him in Sherlock’s sidekick. And he knows that he needs proof, that he needs information.  
In less than half an hour John has discovered that squash balls can cause temporal occlusion of the humeral artery and that an impact from that height would have likely made some serious damage in the skull and different blood splashes on the pavement.

-Oh, Sherlock- he says out loud for the first time in months. The name feels so weird in his lips, but it’s still heart-wrenching.-Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. 

If Sherlock were here right now, John would kick his sorry ass… or perhaps he would hug him as nobody has ever hugged him before. But it doesn’t matter, so he takes a deep breath and he updates his blog for the first time since that damn week. He writes in capital letters a true that will haunt him to his dying day. 

**I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES  
Today, 8 months after his death… I can just repeat it once more. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. He was my best friend, my hero… and someday I will show the world the great man he was. **

It’s not necessary to write more and John doesn’t want to risk it all. If Sherlock has chosen this moment to let John know that he is still alive and he’s done it in such a discreet way, he must have his reasons. Probably something to do with Mycroft, who was so fucking serene at the graveyard. 

_“Oh John.”_ This time John can almost see one of those smiles Sherlock only directed-directs- at him, because this time John has really done it. He has resolved the case alone and he knows that someday Sherlock will be very proud of him. 

So John must keep his cool. Keep with the same meaningless job, same meaningless life… with a big difference: now John Watson has something to life for. And he will do that, he will wait, wait, wait until Sherlock come back to him. John does not have the slightest doubt about it and when the moment comes… that fucking git will have some serious explaining to do.


End file.
